Essence of Life - 7. Septième partie : Le Sorbet

If life were a fairy tale, Dexter’s vow would have solved everything. Reese would be happy, the restaurant would thrive, and the credits would roll. Reality isn’t a fairy tale.

Dexter did try—earnestly at first, then awkwardly, then with a flash of anger when effort didn’t equal relief. He cycled through half a dozen approaches: a few AA meetings where he sat in the back and kept his coat on, a mindfulness app that he abandoned by day three, a pain-management consult that mapped a taper off Oxycodone in cautious milligrams. With Reese’s steady cheerleading and the occasional nudge that felt like a shove, the pills loosened their grip; weeks would pass without one, then a single lapse on a bad night. The wine was different. It braided itself into service, into his idea of himself as a chef—the deglaze in the pan, the sip at lineup, the story he told about brilliance needing an edge. Dry Mondays, advised by several programs, helped hold off Dexter's need until they didn’t. His volatility softened but never vanished; when tickets stacked and the pass went loud, the old heat still lit in his eyes.

Reese learned to read the weather in small things—the tight set of Dexter’s jaw, the way his towel snapped against the apron, the clipped “Oui” that meant the floor was dropping. He put guardrails into the chaos: two waters for every pour; a palm to Dexter’s shoulder when his voice climbed; a prearranged “walk” that meant trading places for five minutes of air by the back door. On nights when drinking outpaced the fixes, he resorted to a solution both ridiculous and effective. After the last table, he would steer Dexter into the linen closet—cool and citrus-clean odors covering the room—press a bottle of water and a protein bar into his hand, and lock the door with a gentle, “Thirty minutes. Remember to breathe.” Reese sat on the tile outside, back against the wood, answering emails by phone-light and listening for the change: the scrape of a wrapper, the sigh, the voice dropping half an octave. It wasn’t a cure, but it kept the worst nights from turning catastrophic—and, crucially, it kept them moving forward.

Over the next weeks and months, Reese spent more time at Dexter’s side—lover, companion, and increasingly, a partner in the work. As Le Coq’s business lifted, Reese quit his daytime sales job. Dexter stretched the hours: the dining room now ran 2:00 p.m.–10:00 p.m., and Reese clocked in at noon and left around one past midnight, usually with Dexter.

He wasn’t there as window dressing. Dexter kept teaching. Sorbets became the new frontier, a way to widen Reese’s skills and lighten the kitchen’s load during service. Since Reese had already mastered suprêmes of lemon, Dexter marched him through the citrus family—orange, tangerine, grapefruit—then into blends with berries, stone fruit, mango, and grapes. Dexter had him purée and strain until the texture was right; he’d learned his lesson about pushing past safety and, this time, watched carefully.

The final test was the purist: hand-make a sorbet—no blender, no machine. Reese knew the mouthfeel he wanted; making it was another matter. He failed repeatedly, frustration mounting while Dexter watched, smiling, withholding the hint he knew Reese needed. After six days of setbacks, he nudged Sara.

She appeared early, catching Reese by surprise. “It’s 12:30,” she said, grinning at his frazzled face. “Dex torturing you again?”

“I can suprême in my sleep,” Reese said. “But he wants a blended sorbet without the machine. Any ideas?”

“Sorbet’s fruit, sugar, water,” Sara said. “You’re trying to mash like a blender. What if you cook the fruit down first?”

Reese blinked. “I didn’t even think that was allowed.”

“Not all sorbets are made with food processors.”

An idea landed with a click. “Lemon suprêmes cooked with banana and mango, finished with a simple syrup. The flavors play well together—it could be almost like ice cream without dairy.”

“That sounds delicious,” Sara said, genuinely impressed.

That night, after service, Reese presented a banana-mango-lemon sorbet to the staff. It gleamed in the light and melted on the tongue. Applause rolled down the line. Sara shot Dexter a look that said encourage him. Dexter nodded and told Reese he’d need a quart for tomorrow—and weekly afterward—because it was going on the rotation. Reese glowed, an item of his on the menu. Later at Dexter’s home—with only five glasses of wine in him, a win by Dexter’s standards—he broached something bigger.

“Reese,” he said with a slur, “I want you to go to culinary school.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you can do more. You’ve got the raw instincts for flavor and innate understanding for kitchen management. I can only teach you so much, because I learned a lot of these skills hands-on.”

“I have Colby to think about.”

“I’ve offered to help with his tuition,” Dexter said. “He’s a good kid. He’ll get through college.”

“I know, and I love you, Dex, but I don’t want this to become about money.”

“Then let it be about your potential,” Dexter replied. “You have a great comprehension without training. Look what you did tonight.”

“You told Sara to help me.”

“I told her to drop by to give you a hint about processing ingredients, not the culinary knowledge of that a banana can act as a stabilizing agent for a smoother texture,” Dexter offered, smiling. “The flavor profile was yours.”

“It’s a lot to ask,” Reese said. “And we don’t even know if the sorbet will be a hit.”

“It will be,” Dexter said simply, “I’ll make a bet with you that it will be a top seller even before summer. If I’m right, please consider my offer.”

Over the winter and early spring, food and service improved enough to shock the locals who had given Le Coq three months to live. Reviews warmed. The sole meunière, the new sorbets, and a general lift in execution turned the dining room into a place people wanted to talk about again. One columnist called the restaurant “a phoenix rising from its own ashes”—a line Dexter pretended to hate and secretly loved.

Success brought volume; volume brought stress; stress brought temptation. Reese couldn't ban wine, especially after Dexter sucessfully eliminated his Oxy intake. For every glass of wine, Dexter could nullify his desire for the pills. Dexter agreed to drink more water—water blunts alcohol’s edge and slows his climb into inebriation. It helped. It didn’t cure his reliance. On the heaviest nights Dexter still overpoured; Reese still shepherded him home. Their physical closeness deepened in quiet, domestic ways. Dexter stayed bossy and exacting in their daily interactions, something Reese appreciated.

Dexter posted ads for a sous-chef and got zero bites. Reese refused to let the idea die and did not accept Dexter's offer to send him to culinary school. Reese recognized he might have an untapped talent for restaurant work, but it would take far too long to solve Dexter and Le Coq's issues. In April, when Reese took a day off to visit a campus with Colby at a state university, he wandered to the hospitality booth.

“Thinking about culinary school?” Colby asked, amused.

“No, the courses are too long, too expensive,” Reese said. “I’m fishing for talent.”

“Dexter offered tuition for both of us last night,” Colby snorted. “You turned him down, again.”

“He’s my boyfriend, not my sugar daddy,” Reese answered back in annoyance. “And he’s done plenty already with the extra hours and pay advance.”

At the booth, a young woman—with the name tag reading Jasmine Teal—offered brochures and samples labeled “Sorbet.” Reese watched her slice perfect suprêmes of lemon, orange, grapefruit, then blitz the fruit, honey, and crushed ice into a frosty pour.

“Your suprêmes are excellent,” he said. “And the granitas are spot on. Why call them sorbets?”

Most people wouldn’t have known the difference between a granita and sorbet, so Reese caught the young woman’s attention. Jasmine raised an eyebrow. “The air is pretty dry. Our chef wanted granita, but the banners were already printed. I know it’s bad to misprint a menu item, it’s very unprofessional and doesn’t represent the culinary program.”

“Do you work in the industry?” she added nervously, fearing Reese was a young chef or a food critic.

“Yes. Le Coq, downtown. Heard of us?”

Her look mixed sympathy and skepticism. “I’ve heard… things.”

The silence that followed said the rest. Reputation travels faster than résumés. Even at a state school, Dexter’s name carried a warning.

“It’s better than the rumors,” Reese tried to ameliorate Le Coq’s bad reputation. “We’re turning it around.”

“I’ve seen the recent reviews,” Jasmine noted and grimaced at her earlier reaction. “I noticed the sous-chef posting and asked my advisor—he’s our program’s executive chef—what he knew.”

Reese leaned in and whispered, “I know the star is gone, but it’s a good job for a young chef, like yourself. There’s baggage from Chef Osenfield’s past behavior. But it’s still a serious kitchen with a seasoned chef and a great location.”

“It’s more than the star,” Jasmine said. “Chef Osenfield is a classicist. I’m classically trained, but I’m interested in modern French. From what I’ve heard, he resists change.”

“He’s more open than you think,” Reese said. “And you’d get real training under him. Being his ‘Sous-chef’ still carries something on a résumé.”

She weighed it. “I’ll throw my name in. But I doubt he’ll look twice. I pay tuition by working on the line at a breakfast chain restaurant. No fine-dining experience.”

“Try anyway,” Reese said. “You never know.”

During this exchange, Colby peeled off to the journalism booth that conducted what looked like a miniature talk show about truth and ethics. Reese noticed Colby interviewing upperclassman in the journalism program, newly aware of a hidden talent he hadn’t seen before.

On the next day, he reached Le Coq at 12:02 to find Dexter waiting by the kitchen, softening when he saw Reese. Reese brought up the subject of Jasmine’s application over prep.

“She’s smart,” Reese selling Jasmine’s character. “Hardworking. Well trained.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Dexter answered non-committal. “It’s… complicated.”

“You promised to hire a sous-chef,” Reese emphasized. “I know you want me to work besides you, but even if I accept your offer to go to culinary school. I can’t become your sous-chef overnight. You must be realistic, Dex.”

“It’s not just that,” Dexter answered with some deeper thoughts. “There are things you don’t understand about this work.”

“I understand the hours, the volume, the drinking,” Reese said evenly. “Someone like Jasmine could help.”

“That’s the thing,” Dexter answered, jaw tightening. “She can’t.”

“Why? You haven’t even met her.”

“There aren’t many women in kitchens for a reason,” he said bluntly. “A lot of chefs won’t hire them. A lot of women don’t make it through. Those who go to culinary school wind up out of the industry.”

Reese stared. “It’s the twenty-first century. Who cares what’s in someone’s pants? You’re a gay chef who just sounded like a sexist.”

Dexter’s temper flared—angry at being questioned by his lover, defensiveness sharp. “Fine. I’ll interview her. Does that make you happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Reese muttered, walking away. “Ass.”

The service ran smoothly, but the air in the kitchen had a rough edge to it. Between courses, Reese pulled Sara aside to question her on why Dexter acted like that. Dexter did not strike him as a misogynist in other things.

“I’m a bra-burning feminist,” she said wryly, “and Dexter’s not entirely wrong about the numbers. It’s ugly to talk about, even uglier to live in that statistic as a woman. The front of house is full of women. Women working the line are few. Very few women cook professionally beyond the lower tiers of kitchen work. Even fewer stay to become successful sous-chefs and executive chefs. Only 6% of Michelin-star restaurants have female chefs.”

“I had no idea it was that bad,” Reese was shocked at Sara’s details about the reality of women in restaurants.

“Relationships, kids, plain exhaustion,” Sara said. “You’ve seen Dexter’s hours. A chef’s prep alone can swallow a life.”

“I thought adding a sous-chef and a lunch service would reduce his stress.”

“It will,” she offered. “But more service is more food. Divide the prep, yes—but the hours still have to be worked by somebody. Women are more likely to be unsuitable for that level of workload.”

“Was I wrong to push him to interview Jasmine?”

“You weren’t wrong,” she contemplated. “Maybe you found a diamond in Jasmine. And for the record, some of the greats are women.”

Reese paused. “I just realized, you said you were part of the statistic. You were a chef, too?”

Sara nodded. “Sous-chef. I know the line women try to walk in this industry.”

Pieces clicked into place—her fluency with the menu, her calm in the weeds, Dexter’s tenderness toward her. Pride for her, sadness for what she’d set aside—Reese felt both, and suspected Dexter did too.

Staff meal was a simple roast with potatoes. Dexter grumbled through it; Carnes and Cloves glanced at Reese, and he could only shrug an apology. Good intentions didn’t make Dexter less human.

After closing, Reese found him in the dining room with the usual bottles. He poured water, set the glass within reach, waited until Dexter drank.

“I’m sorry I called you sexist,” Reese said.

“You must think I’m scum.”

“I’m sorry,” Reese repeated. “I didn’t understand the context.”

“You wouldn’t,” Dexter said quietly, “because you still think I’m a prick.”

“I don’t. I think you’re scared it won’t work—because of the numbers. I talked to Sara.”

“She’s amazing,” Dexter said. “Did she tell you she used to be a sous-chef? I was a line cook then. Our chef was a bastard, and she was kinder than the kitchen deserved.”

He exhaled. “Sadly for her, she also married the bastard chef after he knocked her up and got her pregnant.”

Reese looked on in surprise, learning something new about Sara, “The same bastard that left her and their son?”

“Same one,” Dexter said. “By then I had left the restaurant and followed another chef to NYC. When I came back in town and opened Le Coq, she needed work after he left her. I tried to bring her back into the kitchen. But she had a kid who needed her… she made a choice. So I made her front-of-house manager.”

“I’m sorry,” Reese said. “I jumped to conclusions too fast.”

“I jumped first,” Dexter said. “Years on the line give you habits you don’t see until someone holds up a mirror. I'm not a good person, Reese. I've learned a lot of bad habits and prejudices from experience.”

“You didn’t say it out of hate,” Reese said. “You said it out of fear and care for the restaurant.”

Dexter stared into the distance. “I hope your candidate doesn’t end up with a story like Sara’s.”

“Jasmine seemed smart and tough,” Reese said. “The rest we will find out later. Giving things a chance is all I ask.”

“She might be very good right now, but time will tell. Life changes people,” Dexter remarked, thinking back to a younger passionate Sara in a chef's coat giving a homeless gay kid a chance to cook, then flashing forward to the haggard appearance of a single-mother approaching an aspiring young chef and his boyfriend for an opportunity. “Not always for the better.”

“Maybe,” Reese said, and managed a small smile understanding where Dexter was coming from. “But you aren't the asshole chef in that story?”

It was their first real fight—and their first real reconciliation. Dexter knew he’d overreacted to Jasmine, trained by mentors whose biases had hardened into reflex. He also knew exceptions existed—women who had led kitchens, claimed stars, owned their rooms. The facts lived in his head; the habit lived in his bones. Tonight, at least, he let the facts win.